


A Study in Cheekbones

by ShippingShips



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Canon, Cute, Fluff, Fluffy, Illness, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, ShippingShips, Sickfic, mystrade
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-20
Updated: 2014-02-20
Packaged: 2018-01-13 04:47:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1213246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShippingShips/pseuds/ShippingShips
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes, the worlds only consulting detective, is ill.<br/>It doesn't take a genius to deduce the fact that Sherlock is ill, and it's obvious he's in need of a doctor. His doctor. Doctor John H Watson.<br/>(Fluff, hurt/comfort, Johnlock/Mystrade)</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Study in Cheekbones

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone, thank you so much for clicking this fic! Okay so there is defiantly going to be more chapters to come, and....yeah. I really hope you like it! Please comment your thoughts after :)

Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective, is ill.

"I'm fine," Sherlock protested in between deep breaths, as he heaved the contents of his stomach out and into the toilet. "John, leave me alone."  
The doctor sighed and looked down at his companion, who was draped messily over the toilet, his knuckles white as he gripped the seat with frustration.  
"Because being sick is healthy," John announced sarcastically, but softened his tone as he noticed that Sherlock appeared to be slightly offended.  
"Just...find me a case," Sherlock grumbled, wiping his mouth with a piece of toilet roll before disposing of it and flushing the toilet. "I'm fine."  
Sherlock got up from his awkward crouched position and pushed past John who was stood in the doorway. He headed back into the living room and picked up a recent case file that Lestrade had sent.  
John was once again about to protest that Sherlock was not fit for solving murders, when Sherlock picked up his phone and dialled for Scotland Yard.  
"Lestrade, I'm willing to have you assist me on the 'Backstreet Killings', as you appropriately named them." Sherlock began, "where shall we meet?"  
John rolled his eyes and turned his back, and went to fetch his coat from his bedroom.  
"One day, Sherlock, you're going to really over-do yourself." The doctor muttered to himself.

* * * *

The taxi journey to the crime scene was rather unpleasant, as Sherlock had to order the car to stop in the middle of a busy road so that he could once again empty his stomach. It was surprising how much there was regarding the contents of Sherlock's stomach, as he never appeared to eat that much.

After the pale-faced consultant closed the car door and signalled to the driver that he was okay to keep driving, Sherlock's gaze was met by a very concerned looking John.  
"I'm-"  
"No, you're not fine." John finished for him, "you're really not." The doctor looked the fragile figure sat next to him him up and down, and shook his head.  
Sherlock was clearly sick - it didn't take a genius to be able to deduce that. 

"Right, we're here," the driver pulled the car onto the kerb and turned around in his seat, holding out a gloved hand. "Nine," he said.  
John fumbled around in his wallet, and produced a crisp ten pound note.  
"I ain't got no change," the driver stated, taking the note anyway before ushering the two men out and into the street.  
John glared back at the driver. That was the last time he was calling that taxi service.

Sherlock leaned against a lamppost, composing himself.  
"Sherlock?" John asked, taking in the man's scarily pale features.  
Sherlock didn't reply, he simply turned his face towards the lamppost and covered his face with one hand, the other hand tightly clasped around the post.  
John stepped forward and laid a hand on the man's back, gently stroking it downwards until he reached Sherlock's tailbone.  
A shiver erupted down Sherlock's back, and he lowered his hand from his face and turned to fix his eyes on John.  
"I'm okay," he smiled. John simply nodded, the corners of his mouth also twitching into a smile.  
Sherlock released his grip on the post, and John took a firm yet gentle hold of Sherlock's arm as they set off at a steady pace down the street.

* * * *

When they reached the crime scene, Sherlock's hair was rather damp with sweat, his beautiful complexion a fair shade of grey.  
"You look like hell," Lestrade commented, sharing John's worried expression as he looked the consulting detective briefly over.  
"What!" Sherlock exclaimed, "why is everyone saying this to me?" He swayed slightly, weight shifting uncertainly from foot to foot.  
Lestrade grimaced, turning to John.  
"Take him home, and don't let him come back to the scene."  
Sherlock wobbled forward, "you said you needed me!" he remarked, taken aback by Greg's orders.  
"I didn't know you looked like something straight off of The Walking Dead." Snapped Lestrade, holding his ground. "Now get home. You're not to be included in the case, for the sake of your own health."  
Sherlock snorted and leaned back against the wall for balance support. He tried to make this action subtle, but both John and Greg noticed instantly.

Sherlock was just about to continue protesting that his health had never gotten in the way of his work before, when his head began to feel rather light.  
John was busy discussing the consultant's medical history with Lestrade, and had failed to notice the remaining colour in Sherlock's cheeks fade even more.  
Sherlock blinked rapidly, trying to clear his now-greying vision. Lifting a hand to rub his eyes, he stumbled against the wall (though still somehow managing to stay on his feet) and knocked his head, causing his stomach to churn, which resulted in him feeling slightly nauseous.  
A stab of pain swirled in Sherlock's stomach, and he doubled over and heaved, although nothing came out.  
John, upon hearing, this rushed over to his partner's side.  
"Sherlock? Are you going to be sick?" John's voice remained calm, although he felt as if his insides had turned into butterflies.  
No, butterflies are too nice. More like huge moths flapping their ugly wings around.  
Sherlock mumbled a little, "no", before heaving into the air once again.  
"It's okay, everything's going to be okay." John reassured his friend, patting comforting circles on his back. "Sit down."  
Sherlock was about to (reluctantly) go forth with John's orders when his vision finally failed him, and his legs buckled.  
Lestrade raced behind Sherlock, and grabbed him under the armpits, holding him upright.  
Sherlock's head fell backwards, bumping on Lestrade's shoulder at an uncomfortable angle. Lestrade got down on one knee, and lowered the unconscious Sherlock gently to the ground.  
"Shit, Sherlock." Lestrade shook his head, looking down at the limp man beneath him. He almost looked peaceful.  
"Anderson, call an ambulance."  
Anderson, who was watching in amazement from the top end of the alley stifled a childish giggle before pulling out his phone and dialling 9-9-9.  
John was stood shaking, lips parted, eyes wide.  
"Snap out of it," Lestrade said to John, his eyes still busily assessing Sherlock's still frame. "Keep a closer eye on him in future. You know he doesn't care for himself."  
John took slight offence from what sounded like an accusing comment coming from the detective, but found there to be truth in his words.  
Sinking down onto his knees, John pressed his hand into Sherlock's dark curls, and waited in silence for the ambulance to arrive.

**Author's Note:**

> To be continued :)  
> Subscribe to get an instant notification when I upload a new chapter or a new work if you want to! I can't wait for your feedback - thank you so much in advance :)  
> -ShippingShips xoxo


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